


Project Marzanna

by TreacleTeacups



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dirk Gently AU, Holistic assassin, Little Harry, One Shot, Rated For Violence, blatant disregard for human life, in which Harry is basically bart curlish, painfully ironic unintentional homicide/manslaughter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:19:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28955589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreacleTeacups/pseuds/TreacleTeacups
Summary: In which Harry is born as the delete key of the universe and it takes him ten years to discover what that means.Dirk Gently AU featuring Bart!Harry Potter and a whole bunch of death. No prior knowledge of Dirk Gently required.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 152





	Project Marzanna

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So if you have no idea what Dirk Gently is, never fear. A very brief synopsis of this story/plot can be read [here](https://treacleteacups.tumblr.com/post/635523464455962624/i-have-to-ask-what-project-marzanna-is-im). If you really don't care, no worries - it makes no impact to the story either way. Enjoy!

_The world will take me where I need to go. I'm like a leaf in the stream of creation._

_\- Bart Curlish_

* * *

Harry James Potter is five years and seven months old when he realises something rather extraordinary.

People die around Harry Potter.

The concept of mortality is not an odd lesson for a child of five years to learn. However, what was odd, was learning oneself of being the _cause_ of said death _._

Harry is five years, seven months, and two days old when he stares down at Mr. Wilson, the old man who liked to wag his fat finger at school children and watch them walk to school, and realises that he has murdered Mr. Wilson.

Harry did not mean to murder Mr. Wilson. It simply just Happened.

Harry was walking to school on a cool autumn morning. Cousin Dudley and Aunt Petunia prefer to drive to school, but Harry is not allowed to sit in the car except on special occasions. Harry’s walk to school is not long, perhaps twenty minutes, and he enjoys the peaceful silence. Except for when Mr. Wilson stares at Harry as the young boy walks down the road, sitting on his porch and giving Harry the most peculiarly odd look.

This morning, Mr. Wilson stood up from his old chair. It was a break of routine; normally, Mr. Wilson sat on his rocking chair and quietly stared at Harry as he walked the length of Mr. Wilson’s block.

Harry is not scared of Mr. Wilson, like the other children are. Harry is rarely scared of anything. He doesn’t know why, but perhaps it is the fact that Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon like to tell him precisely how terrible he is, so Harry Potter has come to think of himself as the worst thing there could possibly exist, and thus he is rarely frightened of anything else – after all, if _he_ is the worst, how terrible could everything else be?

However, this cool autumn morning, Mr. Wilson had a different look in his eye as he rose to his feet, wrinkly skin burying into orthopedic shoes and a clawed hand clutching at his cane. He wobbles down his stairs and walks toward Harry, not even looking as he crosses the street.

Harry stops. He watches Mr. Wilson. Mr. Wilson stares at Harry. Harry would maybe have described the expression as _hungry_ , but he isn’t food.

The old man walks slowly, but he gets to the other side of the road with ease and he stands before Harry Potter, wrinkled cheeks distorting into an unfriendly smile, his damp, dark eyes reminding Harry of the sharks on the nature channel. The hair on Harry’s arm rises. The skin of the nape of his neck tingles. Harry’s fingers feel strange.

Mr. Wilson moves toward Harry, opening his mouth as if to speak, and Harry lurches forward. He can barely recall what made him do it, but he had, and Harry shoves Mr. Wilson with all his might.

Mr. Wilson gapes, floundering in the air for a brief moment, and then he topples over, cane flying and orthopedic shoes high in the air, and there is a sickening _crack!_ as the old man lands awkwardly on the sidewalk.

Harry stares down at Mr. Wilson. The old man does not move. There is blood seeping out of his ears and a blank expression of shock on his still face.

Harry looks up one side of the street and then down the other. It is a quiet street of old, unkempt houses. It is not on the school route for parents, as it is a cut through Harry uses between commuter streets.

There is no one watching. No one has seen Harry James Potter attack a seventy-five-year-old man.

Harry looks back down at Mr. Wilson. He thinks that he should feel _something_. Perhaps regret or horror or worry. But Harry does not feel _anything_ other than… Satisfaction. It curls in the cavity of his lungs, burns at the front of his brain. Something tingles in his skin and says _yes yes yes._

Harry wonders if he is a murderer. If Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were right all along. That he is terrible and bad and irredeemable. For Harry has attacked an old, defenceless man and feels nothing other than _right._

The small boy tilts his head, considering. Should he call for help? Or should he go to school?

Harry weighs his options. He’ll be in trouble at home, if Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon find out. He’ll be confined to his cupboard without food and water for the entire weekend. Harry hates the cupboard under the stairs. It is nice that he has a space for himself, but he gets very uncomfortable if he is there for longer than a day.

Harry decides that no one needs to know that he was here. After all, no one has seen him. It is perhaps cowardly, but the feeling of _rightness_ about the entire situation makes him feel a little less scared. So Harry sidesteps the cooling body of Mr. Wilson and continues on his way to school.

* * *

The afternoon news on the telly announces that an old man was found dead on a side street in Little Whinging. He tripped over a small crack on the sidewalk – his balance wasn’t what it was, as he used a cane and special shoes to walk – and fell on his head and split it open. This would not have normally made the evening news, with the very exception that two little boys were found in Mr. Wilson’s basement. They were in varying stages of dying.

Mr. Wilson was a Very Bad Man, the telly said.

Aunt Petunia turns and looks at Harry as the little boy tends to the mashed potatoes on the stove top. Harry feels her eyes on him and partially turns, looking at the horse-like woman out of the corner of his eye. He wonders if she knows.

Aunt Petunia is giving Harry a strange look. It is not fear, or judgement, or anger. It is an expression he cannot place. So Harry turns back to the stove top and continues making dinner for the Dursley family.

Had Harry James Potter been raised by a kind and loving family, he may have recognised the expression of hesitant concern on Aunt Petunia’s face, as the woman was fully aware that her young charge walked on that street twice a day on his way to and from school. Alas, he was not, and Aunt Petunia had extraordinarily little capacity for empathy or maternal affection outside of her only spawn, so the moment passed without mention.

* * *

_I heard about you. Your mom's an asshole._

_\- Bart Curlish_

* * *

Seventy-five-year-old Frederick Wilson was Harry Potter’s fifth victim. The first being, of course, Lord Voldemort. The second being a rather terrible woman that Harry had accidentally spilt juice on as a little boy when she ran into him on the street. On her way to get her pant suit dry cleaned, the woman walked into the path of a garbage truck (too busy ranting and raving to pay attention) and died on the spot. The third was a strange little boy that liked to kill small animals and set things on fire. He chased Harry across the town until Harry found himself up in a tree and when the little boy tried to climb up after Harry, his hands were full with sharp sticks to stab Harry with so he fell and broke his little neck.

The fourth was a rather feisty teacher who liked to rap her students’ knuckles a little _too_ hard and make them sit in dark classrooms with locked doors.

Unfortunately for the woman, she decided to lock Harry in a dark classroom and upon investigating why the child was being so quiet (he was not crying like the others, for he was used to such treatment), the teacher accidentally tripped over a child’s chair in the dark and impaled herself on the miniature-sized spiked flagpole on her desk displaying the Union Jack.

The fourth person was just as much as an accident as the first three, however the fifth was by Harry’s design.

It was at this point that Harry realised that perhaps there was something a little… _different_ about him and the situations in which he found himself. Had little Harry had the words to explain, he would have called it Cosmic Design. Or, perhaps, Karmic Justice. For it was not malicious, the deaths and murders, however it was universally intended. Harry did not _mean_ to murder those people, however the universe put the small child in a position in which it was inevitable. Small accidents turned fatal, no matter how hard Harry tried to not murder anyone, and at a certain point Harry simply just stopped caring.

Perhaps that was callous, or unethical, or perhaps it was a smidgen psychopathic, from an outsider’s point of view. And yet Harry simply just _existed_ and, by simple virtue of existing, people died.

* * *

When Harry finally accepted that he was the universe’s equivalent of a human bug zapper, the deaths increased quite rapidly. This was not because Harry _sought_ the timely death of people, but rather because the universe recognised that the young boy had come to emotional terms with his Existential Purpose and decided that the increase of deaths would not mentally break the boy.

For example, there was the mailman, who swerved out of Harry’s way as the little boy chased a ball into the street. The mailman crashed into a tree, dying instantly, and eventually people discovered he enjoyed stalking and assaulting young women.

There was the pastor, of whom several children came forward about after his untimely death via tripping over Harry’s shoes into the church incinerator.

In one memorable instance, an old man visited Little Whinging on a holiday road trip and the miserable bastard opened his car door just in time for Harry to cross the street, causing a peloton of cyclists (who accidentally missed the pedestrian walking sign) to swerve and crash directly into the old man and killing him instantly. It was not until the coroner investigated the man’s background that it was discovered he was an old Nazi general on the lamb who had developed a rather convincing English accent and had done quite well for himself after escaping the Nuremburg Trials. For nearly fifty years, he had merrily been living consequence free in the UK until he crossed the path of one Harry James Potter.

As it is often the case (for children are more in tune with the workings of the universe than their adult counterparts, who oft find their innate connections to the natural world beaten out of them by the time they open a savings account), Harry’s schoolmates were the first to notice the odd happenings around the small boy. Harry became something of a pariah, for the other children claimed he was intentionally killed people – and that he always, _always,_ got away with it.

It took several months for the adults to hear these malicious whispers, as children can be surprisingly secretive when required, and at this point so many people had died in Harry’s general vicinity that the preposterous rumour was not immediately dismissed.

Aunt Petunia, despite her preternatural ability to be aware of every snippet of gossip in Little Whinging, did not discover these rumours first. It was Uncle Vernon who happened to take little Dudley to Bring Your Child To Work Day and got an earful of the absurd rumours.

Vernon Dursley always has been and always will be a singularly unpleasant fellow. He was completely aware of this. Vernon had cultivated an aura of malicious superiority over his colleagues, extended family, and acquaintances, a personality that Vernon was rather proud of for he had worked vigilantly to establish himself as the big fish in his very small pond.

It was for this reason that Vernon Dursley began to become nervous. As he was himself something of a predator, and knowing full well that he was and being proud of being the top of the food chain as it were, he recognised a consistent vein threading through Harry’s victims (seventeen, now that the child was ten years old, though not that Vernon Dursley knew of half the deaths).

In each instance of fatal accident, it was always discovered at some later point that the poor dead sod was a Terrible Human Being. How little Harry knew, Vernon Dursley had no idea. But the facts did not lie. There were kidnappers, paedophiles, abusers, fraudsters, rapists, racists, murderers, and war criminals. And with each death, somehow the town became a little safer, a little less horrific.

Vernon Dursley is unsure what will happen once all the seriously terrible criminals die out. Will little Harry James Potter come after the lessor criminals (in his own twisted opinion), such as ones who sexually harass their secretary at their drill sales company or lock their young nephews in closets, denying them basic human amenities and rights?

Vernon does not know. But he has absolutely no interest in finding out.

* * *

“It is time to be rid of the boy,” Vernon told Petunia Dursley as he came home from Take Your Child To Work Day. Dudley was eating sweets in front of the telly. The Boy was nowhere to be found. Vernon looked over his shoulder nervously, hoping the little monster wasn’t near to hear the conversation.

“Vernon!” Petunia hissed, glancing around furtively as well. Her pinched face paled under her poorly applied concealer. “You know why we cannot do that. _They_ will find out.”

“I’m suggesting that _they_ come and take him,” Vernon huffed, puffing out his chest to hide the swelling of fear in his being at the mention of _them._ “The Boy is unnatural. He is _dangerous. I do not want it in my house.”_

Petunia Dursley nee Evans had slowly developed her own opinion of Harry James Potter. Whilst she did not like the boy nor his breeding stock, she recognised something peculiarly like schadenfreudian delight at seeing the downfall of several annoying persons in the city of Little Whinging, all at the hands of Harry Potter. It was not because she was supportive of Harry’s cosmic designation, nor fate’s decision to hand accidental fatalities to Harry like it were an overeager houseowner distributing sweets on Halloween. No, it was because Petunia Dursley was secretly delighted that such an awful boy like Harry Potter was unintentionally ‘cleaning the house’, per se, of terrible people in their town and she cared not one iota for the health or wellbeing of her charge, and so she was glad that it was happening to _him_ , and not her sweet Dudley, her lovely Vernon, or heavens forbid – herself. _That_ would have been a situation unbearable.

“I hardly think the boy is dangerous to _us,_ ” Petunia laughed, waving her hand in the air dismissively.

“Perhaps not now, but when he grows older,” Vernon replied lowly, black beady eyes narrowing as he looked over his shoulder, hoping the awful child was not within earshot. “When he discovers that not all little boys live in cupboards.”

Petunia immediately flushed bright red and then, with the same speed of her abrupt flush, she paled to a deathly ashen shade. Her thin cheeks hollowed deeply as she sucked her expression into something so utterly sour that a bystander would have imagined she had just eaten a positively horrific lemon.

“We must be rid of him,” Petunia said at last. “I will make it happen.”

Vernon sighed in relief at his wife’s words. No matter how much Vernon knew himself to be the patriarch, the top dog, his lovely wife Petunia was cleverer and more witted than even himself. She would solve the matter.

* * *

Despite recognising the woman of having a horrible personality, there is no one on Privet Drive who would be willing to disagree that Petunia Dursley was anything other than shrewd.

It had been quite obvious to the high-strung woman what it meant when Harry Potter had been dropped off at her pristine stoop and the nosily, horrifically odd Arabella Figg moved onto Wisteria Walk the morning after. Petunia only put up with the painfully obviousness of being spied upon only because it meant that there was someone else in the neighbourhood who _must_ watch Harry Potter – and someone Petunia could force to watch Harry at any given time, for no pay, whenever Petunia felt like it. Mrs. Figg was also a particularly incompetent woman, for Petunia was fully aware that most people would not have allowed a child to remain in her household had they seen how the Dursley Household treated Harry Potter. Once Petunia was assured that Mrs. Figg either did not care to report Harry’s treatment (or, perhaps, that Albus Dumbledore simply did not find their treatment offending enough to remove the boy), Petunia’s treatment of the young boy grew steadily worse.

Now, with her husband’s gentle guiding, Petunia sees that she may have made a potentially fatal mistake.

So Petunia marched down Privet Drive and turned left onto Wisteria Walk, stomped up to Arabella Figg’s door, and knocked with a firmness just on the other side of polite.

“Yes?” Mrs. Figg queried, opening her door a crack. Her face fell when she laid her eyes on the pinched expression on Petunia’s face.

“We need to speak,” Petunia spat.

Mrs. Figg glanced behind her, into the gloomy smelly darkness, and turned back to Petunia. “I’m rather busy,” she said, worrying her bottom lip.

“Don’t think for a moment that I don’t know you get a stipend for watching us,” Petunia sneered, ignoring the widening of Mrs. Figg’s eyes with disgust, “You’re being paid to watch and listen to me, so _you will_.”

Mrs. Figg let herself be pushed back, frozen in shock as she was, when Petunia shoved her way into the older woman’s house.

Petunia did not go further than three steps into the entryway, which was as far into the cabbage-scented, cat-piss soaked household she would dare go. She turned to Mrs. Figg, shut the door on the shocked woman’s face, and immediately dived into her demands lest she continue breathing the toxic air for a moment longer.

“You will organise new lodging for Harry Potter. I do not care _how_ you do it, but you will. The boy is too dangerous. He is a threat to my family. I did what Dumbledore asked me to do, and with a damn smile on my face,” _she most certainly had not,_ “But I will allow this to go on no further! That child is a menace, a murderer, and I will no longer let myself be bullied!”

Arabella Figg gaped at Petunia Dursley wordlessly.

“I will be dropping him off here the _moment_ he returns from after-school care!” Petunia began to shout, now really working herself up into a proper fury. “You will take him, remove him from this area – no, you will _remove him from this entire county._ If I so much as see hide or hair of that boy in the entire district of Surrey I will march to that precious school of Dumbledore’s and give him a what’s what!”

With that, Petunia raised her head, sniffed, and left Mrs. Figg’s house in a storm.

* * *

_I'm just an assassin. But I'll tell you what, I'm beginning to get a feeling this will all end badly._

_\- Bart Curlish_

* * *

Little Harry Potter was informed he was going on a trip the moment he returned home from school. The minute he walked into the entry hallway, Petunia greeted him with a sneer. She held a suitcase packed with his meagre belongings and immediately marched him down the block to Mrs. Figg’s abode. She dropped the young boy off without so much as a goodbye and returned to her house, closing her curtains and locking her front door lest the young boy get any impression of returning to her home.

Petunia breathed a sigh of relief. Finally. _Finally_. It was over. It was done. She no longer had to look at her miserable, stupid sister’s green eyes. She no longer had to be reminded of her revolting brother-in-law when she saw a flash of unruly black hair or coke-bottle glasses.

She was _free._

* * *

Unfortunately for Petunia and Vernon Dursley, the minute Harry Potter was no longer welcome in their household (not that he had ever been, though he had never been literally thrown out before), was the minute the protections keeping Harry Potter safe collapsed in Number Four Privet Drive. The universe recognised that Petunia Dursley was _done_ , that she would no longer provide lodging for her young nephew as she thought the boy dangerous to her family’s wellbeing. In a rather delightful turn of irony, the universe no longer had any reason for keeping the nasty Dursley family alive (for they were no longer providing sanctuary for their chosen karmic conduit), and fate decided that the Dursley family no longer had use and thus no longer carried protection.

Mrs. Figg was fretting something terrible when Petunia Dursley dropped off a surprised Harry James Potter at her front door. She wrung her hands as she peeked out of her moth eaten lace windows, watching Petunia march down the sidewalk and away from sight. The woman chewed her lip as she desperately thought what she might say to Dumbledore – the old wizard was _quite_ adamant that Harry Potter was to never leave the Dursley household until the moment he was collected.

Mrs. Figg’s conundrum was rather alarmingly and abruptly obliterated when Petunia slipped through her front door, closed her curtains tightly, and went to make herself a calming pot of chamomile tea. Upon sparking the flint of her kitchen stove top, the entire two story weatherboard house of Number Four Privet Drive exploded with impossible force and shattered the windows of every house on Privet Drive within six lots on either side of Number Four.

As luck would have it, Arabella Figg’s house was just far enough from Privet Drive that, while sprinkled with the shrapnel remains of Number Four, her home was completely undamaged and unharmed.

Arabella Figg gaped at the black, smoking destruction that billowed from Privet Drive. Mrs. Figg scrambled out her front door, her half-kneazles leaping out of her way, and she ran in her slippers and robe down Wisteria Walk until she turned the corner onto Privet Drive.

Number Four Privet Drive had not just exploded – it was _obliterated_. There was no conceivable way that a human being had survived the explosion. Perhaps even if they _had_ survived the explosion, they certainly would have not survived the two floors stacking like a pancake and the smouldering roof coming down upon it all.

The fire marshals showed up not very long after, the street filled with hundreds of shocked onlookers, and the neighbourhood was treated collectively for shock.

Arabella Figg was unable to contact Dumbledore that evening. In fact, she was unable to do anything other than sit in her chair numbly as Harry Potter slept on her sofa, the young boy surrounded by two kneazles, who curled around the young boy and purred. At first, Mrs. Figg suspected Death Eater involvement. Surely, that would be the only probable answer? However there was no Dark Mark left in the sky, and no further attacks. Mrs. Figg was too stunned to contact Dumbledore. After all, what would she even _say_?

It wasn’t until the morning paper that it was announced that a gas main under Number Four Privet Drive had cracked and was slowly filling the house with gas over the entirety of the afternoon. In a freak accident, the basement ventilation systems had gotten blocked by a family of rabbits who had used the ventilation system as a depositing station for their excess dirt as they tunnelled through the ground. It was also noted that, for some reason, the family had not opened a single window in the house all day and it had been slowly filling with gas. Why the family had not smelt the pungent gas confounded everyone. What was not known, was that Petunia Dursley had gotten a poor nose job when she was younger, which had eradicated her sense of smell. Vernon Dursley had been stuffed up all day as he was coming down with a rather terrible cold, caught from his son early in the morning when he took the rotund boy to Take Your Child To Work Day. Dudley was simply too stupid to know what gas smelt like and was distracted from complaining about the odd smell in the house as he had been given a litany of sweets after arriving home from his father’s work.

The only person in the entire house who would have smelt, recognised, and treated the issue of the gas leak was immediately turned away at the door and disposed of at his neighbour’s home. Unfortunately for the Dursleys, it was the same little boy who had enticed a family of burrowing rabbits to sleep in the ventilation systems by feeding them kitchen vegetable scraps.

And so it was when Petunia Dursley wiped her hands clean of Harry James Potter forever and decided to reward herself with a cup of calming tea that the Dursley household was eradicated in a single, sweeping moment, and Harry’s life changed forever.

* * *

Dumbledore attended Arabella Figg’s summons the morning after the Dursleys perished in a shock gas explosion. He was alarmed by Mrs. Figg’s explanation. Dumbledore had never heard a peep about Harry Potter’s anomalous abilities to be at the centre of people dying before that very day, but Mrs. Figg simply could not withhold herself and it all came spilling out. The old man peaked out the lace curtains of Mrs. Figg’s home and watched Harry weed Mrs. Figg’s gardens.

“He likes to do that,” Mrs. Figg said at long last, shaking hands holding her cup of English Breakfast. “That’s all he did at the Dursley’s home. Gardening, that is.”

“Interesting child,” Dumbledore commented, lacing his fingers over his long white beard. “You have given me much to think about.”

Mrs. Figg sucked on a lemon drop gifted to her by the headmaster, petting one of her cats to soothe her nerves.

“He can’t stay here,” Mrs. Figg said softly. ‘I don’t know how true the rumours are, but I do not think he is safe here.’

“Harry is no threat to you,” Dumbledore replied, bushy eyebrows drawing together. “And even if the rumours were true, you are hardly in the category of those who meet their unfortunate ends.”

“Dudley was just a boy,” Mrs. Figg said around the hard candy, “A horrible boy, but just a boy. Besides, everyone knows these rumours and now they’ve been validated – well, I don’t think it’s just _my_ safety we should be concerned about.”

Dumbledore shook his head and looked down as he thought, letting the lace curtain slide back to cover the window. He turned to Mrs. Figg sadly. “I believe you are right, Arabella. I will bring him back with me.”

* * *

_Let's get out of here. These people are nutjobs._

_\- Bart Curlish_

* * *

Harry Potter was introduced to the wizarding world with very little flair. In a different world, he may have been greeted by a large caretaker and paraded through Diagon Alley, or introduced to witches and wizards in the Leaky Cauldron, or shown the wonders of Gringotts. However, this is not that world, and Harry was immediately taken to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. His introduction to the school did not include a hidden station in London, nor a beautiful red train, nor crossing a dark lake glittering by lantern light, nor a sorting hat singing a poem.

Rather, Harry’s introduction to Hogwarts involved a quiet, thoughtful headmaster leading Harry to a set of rooms and dropping the boy off, promising to return to bring him to dinner. The journey had been brief but wonderful to Harry, who had spent his entire life thinking of himself as something of an anomaly with no other comparison. Harry might have been surprised to learn that no one else caused impromptu deaths like his own existence did, however he never bothered to ask Dumbledore and Dumbledore did not proffer this information. Harry settled into his spacious rooms (and amazed that he had an entire suite to himself) and he washed himself of the stench of Arabella Figg’s cabbage-scented house.

Just as Harry finished dressing himself, he heard a knock on his chamber doors. Harry quickly crossed the room and opened the door, expecting to see the Headmaster, and instead looked up to the sight of a tall, turbaned man with glittering eyes staring down at him.

“Harry Potter,” the man said slowly, tasting the syllables with a relish.

“Yes?” Harry enquired politely, not opening the door further than a foot. This man did Not Feel Right.

“You have arrived a year early,” the man announced. “We were not expecting you yet.”

“Alright,” Harry replied, frowning a smidge.

“Come with me,” the man stated. “I am to take you to dinner.”

“Dumbledore told me he was going to collect me,” Harry answered, not moving.

“The man is busy with being a headmaster. It is the middle of the last term. You must understand he cannot cater to your every whim,” the man intoned darkly, temper piquing.

“Alright,” Harry repeated. “That’s no problem. I don’t need dinner. I’ll just stay in, I think. Thanks, though.”

Harry moved to shut the door and then suddenly the man’s foot was against the door, stopping Harry from closing it. Harry looked at the foot, travelled his gaze up the offending leg, and met the turbaned man’s stare with a narrowed gaze. Harry felt a swell of anger in his chest, of irritation nipping at his mind. This man’s gaze was firm, piercing – it felt… _Intrusive._

Harry realised with a start what was happening. This man was Wrong. The universe was telling Harry Potter who his next victim was. A sinking feeling of despair began to grow in Harry’s stomach. For the first time in Harry’s short ten-year-old life, he had thought without a shadow of a doubt that he was going someplace Good. Someplace he wouldn’t need to see people die or be the cause of the death. A place where he was Safe, and Welcome, and Home.

Apparently, this was not the case.

In a world where Harry was an anomaly, Harry was the odd one out by nature of his existence. But now he was _surrounded_ by anomalies, by _magic_ , and yet this Wrong Man existed. Clearly, the magical world was unlike what Harry thought it was going to be. Had Dumbledore left Harry here to be attacked by this turbaned man? It hadn’t seemed that way, Dumbledore seemed strange but Harry certainly didn’t get that feeling of destiny around the man, like he was dangerous or Harry’s next victim. Perhaps Dumbledore knew what Harry does and had sent the turbaned man to Harry, to be rid of him. Did that make Harry… A weapon?

In the moments of Harry’s musing, the man’s patience broke.

“Let me in,” he snarled rudely, pushing his way into Harry’s new quarters.

 _A weapon_ , Harry repeated to himself, turning the word over in his mind as the turban man prowled into Harry’s rooms, shutting the door harshly with the flick of his hand. Harry had never considered himself such a thing, and yet the thought struck hard and fast. Perhaps he was a weapon. _Yes,_ Harry thought. _I am a weapon, a weapon of the universe, of life. It’s not my fault, it’s just the way things are._

When the man loomed over Harry with a dark smirk on his twisted features, Harry smiled back.

* * *

_There are two constants. Me and gravity._

_\- Bart Curlish_

* * *

And that is the story of how Harry James Potter (who by ten years old was indirectly and occasionally directly involved with the death of twenty one people) labelled himself a holistic assassin, obliterated the body of Lord Voldemort for the second time in ten years, and disappeared from the wizarding world overnight.


End file.
